you deserve an anthem
by madis hartte
Summary: When it turns out that they'd both gotten one another absolutely nothing for Christmas, River laughs till she cries.


**_both of us a hand-me-down tune; you deserve an anthem_  
**

* * *

_I dreamt of a suit, a suit so fine I dressed my words in,_

_Sewn and tailor made with song in mind, made of melody,_

_Stitched by threads of notes with perfect pitch, perfectly composed  
_

_Sound in tune and key, a code of rhythm and harmony._

_But when I awoke my coat was worn and my words were plain.  
_

_Each song that I sang, all the notes were wrong and poorly played.  
_

_Both my sleeves had holes, my knees were patched, my shoes needed soles;  
_

_No clever disguise, no way to hide my offensive tone._

_But I, I wish for you more than I can give, than I can do:_

_Yeah you, you deserve the best, an anthem, not my hand-me-down tune._

_Yeah you, you deserve the best, an anthem, not my hand-me-down tune._

_~the avett brothers_

* * *

She lies awake at night, thinking about it. The anger of a Time Lord. She hadn't said anything at all against it, other than _i love you, love love love you, _and she had cried, just a little. Besides, she knew why he was doing it. Trying to get her to kill him, angry enough that she'll allow her programming to take over, rush at him with bare hands, touch him, snap his neck or strangle him, stop both his hearts, start time again.

_(the goal of the whole enterprise wasn't to keep him from dying)_

But she wouldn't kill him. She wouldn't. Theirs is a strange kind of love, and it borders on something close to hate. Even as he screamed at her, all she heard was _i love you_; even as she killed him dead, all he said was _i forgive you._

_(but he wasn't screaming, he was whispering; she wasn't killing, she was saving)_

And he comes for her at night, but its always a younger him: old enough to know who she is as Melody Pond, yes, old enough to even maybe love her, but every single night he comes and he's not her husband, and she has to forgive him all over again, put on the smile and flirt flirt flirt.

_(there, see? i lied.)_

Finally River has enough. She takes up the Doctor's advice, breaks out of jail, and goes looking for him herself. It's the first place she thinks of, and it's the last place she goes to: her parent's house in Leadworth. The TARDIS is on the corner, lightly dusted with snow; Christmas lights blinkle all down the streets, hanging over the houses, a covering of lights. A cold shock goes through her, at the sight of the TARDIS, an electric spark all over, ghosting cold heat down through her.

River moves through the unplowed snow in the street, feeling light. She could have been walking on air. Her hand is light, gliding on the railing of her parent's house, dusting off the snow there; she steps in his footprints, step for step, dogging him up the stairs. She stops where he had, fitting her feet into the ghosts of his shoes imprinted in the snow. The wreath on the front door smells clear and sharp and artificial, like a million of pine-scented plastic trees. Store bought, but no less beautiful.

She knocks on the door.

Dad opens it. "River?" he asks, surprised, the surprise breaking open into a smile and a hug. "You told us you wouldn't be able to make it for Christmas." He draws her into the house, an arm around her shoulders.

"I probably lied," she says. She is ice cold with anger. Her coldness comes cracking in through her voice: "Where is he?" Because as much as she loves her parents, Christmas can wait.

Before Dad can reply, Mum comes out into the hall with a smile on her face so bright as to melt a dozen snowmen. "River," she says with no trace of surprise at all, enfolding her daughter into a hug. "Right on time. Knew you were probably lying—if the Doctor shows up, I thought, our Mels won't be that far behind."

"Hey Mum," River says, already moving past her into the living room. Sure enough, he's sitting there frozen on the couch, a string of popcorn intertwined in his hands until it breaks away to fall to the floor, curling around his feet lazy as a cat. "River," he squeaks, popping to his feet. The popcorn string catches under him, pulls taut, and breaks. Popcorn flies everywhere, and the popcorn in the bowl next to him on the couch topples over in the sudden upheaval, spilling over the couch. "River. Hello."

She takes a moment to look at him, gauging the way he looks at her: half fearful, half hopeful, a smidge of irritation crossed with an exasperated fondness, and guilt guilt guilt.

It's the guilt that decides it.

She steps through the popcorn and slaps him.

"River!" Mum gasps, but that doesn't really matter right now, sorry Mum.

There's an imprint of her hand on his cheek. Five fingers and a palm. He reaches up, touches her red hand with the tips of his fingers, ghosting lightly. "What the _hell_, River?" he snaps, each word precise, crisp as an apple.

"Did it count?" she bites back. Her voice quavers on the end, just a little, but they both ignore it.

Mum comes up on River's other side, puts an arm around her shoulders. "Doctor, what did you do?" she says, and Dad's on River's other side, looking anxiously from Doctor to daughter.

"Oi! She slapped me! This isn't my fault—I was ambushed!"

"Yes, and you probably deserved it," Mum agrees accordingly.

River ignores them all, steps closer to the Doctor, severely invading his personal bubble. Mum's arm slips from her shoulders. River's vaguely aware of Mum pulling Dad out of the room, but again, that hardly matters.

"Did. It. Count," she demands again, stepping closer, forcing an answer from him.

The Doctor sighs; his hands fall onto her shoulders, and he pins her in place with his gaze. "River—of course it counted," he says.

"Then _why," _she says, voice still dangerously cold, "haven't you been to visit me? _You, _Doctor. My _husband_, if you didn't forget that little detail."

"No. No, I haven't forgotten."

"Then _why?_"

"Because I was angry, River. I'm _still_ angry. You broke time—you told Amy and Rory I was alive, that was dangerous, they could be killed because they know—you were selfish—you were—"

"What? I was you?" she says. He sucks in a breath; she knew that wounded him. "Yes, I was. I was terribly, terribly selfish. I wanted for you to see that you were loved before you died, because you're thick and you still don't get it. Gods, Doctor, sometimes you can just be so _stupid._"

"That still doesn't make it right."

"No, it doesn't," she agrees. His jaw works up and down; she is acutely aware of just how dizzingly close they are, but she ignores that. "It hurt, that you didn't come to visit," she admits, studying the truly awful pattern of his tweed jacket rather than look at him.

"I'm not particularly sorry I didn't visit," he admits in his turn. "It was easier not to." He draws her closer towards him until he can rest his head against hers. She smells the clean scent of him, of cold places and pines trees. Her fingers curl around the lapels of his coat. "But I _am_ sorry I hurt you. So it's a double sided coin."

"Mm," she says, her eyes fluttering closed. Her anger has drained from her as quickly as that. "Just—Just visit me once in a while, yeah? I would like to see my husband sometimes, even if he is a coward."

"The absolute worst of them," he agrees, voice scratching low. The bridge of her nose finds the pulse under the corner of his jaw, rests there. He shivers a bit, and his hold tightens around her.

"Doctor?" she says after a moment of listening.

"Yes, River?"

"You really need to be more careful about spoilers. I never told Mum and Dad _anything_ about you being alive." She pulls back to laugh at his stunned face. "You big idiot."

Then he kisses her eyes as well as her mouth. They stay clenched together like that until Mum comes in to interrupt that dinner's ready. They sigh, pull apart; their hands intertwine as they make their way to the table.

XX

They lie against one another on the couch, drowsy and warm. Amy and Rory had gone to bed over an hour ago, but with the Doctor half asleep against her, River had been loathe to move. But he's woken up enough, now, to slur, "What a pair we make, eh, River? Worst man and wife in history, I'd expect."

"The worst kind of pair," she agrees, head pillowed by his shoulder.

His arms tighten around her. "At least we love each other," he concedes thoughtfully, sounding a bit stunned by the revelation. She twists her head up to look at him; he's staring up at the ceiling, face half blurred by sleep and the dim light from the Christmas tree, which is the only light in the room.

"I'd think we'd have killed one another within the hour, otherwise," she says.

"Oh, undoubtedly." He laughs. "Whatever shall I do with us?"

"Oh, I can think of a few ideas, Doctor Song," she flirts. "But I'm too," she yawns, "comfortable to move."

"Ri-_ver," _he protests, blushing. "And I'll have you know, it's not Doctor _Song. _It doesn't work like that."

"Yeah it does."

"Yeeah." Cracking a yawn of his own, he shifts so that they're both lying crammed side by side on the couch. Snagging the throw blanket that's over the back of the couch, he drapes it over them both, making an awkward job of it. River half sits up, helps him straighten it out, and then curls up next to him again. She half sits up again to pull out a missed popcorn kernel, melts into him again with a sigh. "I mean seriously though," he continues once they're settled. "My wife's in jail."

"And my husband has commitment issues."

"Exactly! However will we _work? _And I do not have commitment issues. I'll have you know, Doctor Song, that I am a man of seriousness and—and, um—"

"Mhm. I see what you mean, Doctor Song. I suppose," another yawn, "we'll just have to make it up as we go along."

"Yeah. Merry Christmas, Doctor Song."

"Merr' Chris'mas," she slurs, half-asleep already. "Love you," she adds on a sigh.

"Yeah," he says. "I know. Sleep, River. We have presents to open in the morning."

"A real . . . chore," she agrees, sinking into the warmth of him. "I don't know how we'll survive."

"Oh, I'll think of something." He presses a kiss onto her forehead. She's asleep when he whispers he loves her too.

XX

She never hears him say it, not really. But she knows that he does. And when he drops her off at her doorstep with a watery-eyed smile, in a new suit covered with grass stains, he'll kiss her, swiftly, fiercely, and say

nothing. He'll watch her go to her death with a smile, and when she says _i love you_ he'll say _i know._

XX

When it turns out that they'd both gotten one another absolutely nothing for Christmas, River laughs till she cries. "We really _are_ rubbish to one another, aren't we?" she exclaims.

The Doctor laughs, plops a lime green Christmas bow on top of her head. It clings precariously to a few wisps of her curls, and bobbles as she moves. Rory observes the whatever-it-is his son-in-law had gotten him with trepidation; Amy laughs at the expression on his face.

"Yeah, we are,"the Doctor agrees, bopping River on the nose."Absolutely rubbish. But at least we'll be rubbish together."


End file.
